


Snow Day

by quiet_ramblings



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - British, Alternate Universe - Office, Alternate Universe - Writing & Publishing, Angst and Humor, Anxiety, Intern!Marco, London, London Underground, M/M, Probably an awful lot of angst, Sarcasm, Social Anxiety, Strong Language, consultant!Jean, jeanmarco
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-07
Updated: 2015-03-24
Packaged: 2018-03-16 19:05:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3499508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quiet_ramblings/pseuds/quiet_ramblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It might not be Jean's day, but it might just turn out to be his week.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

“Well, it isn’t as if today could realistically get any fucking worse.”

I violently wrench the key into ignition, hissing between my teeth as I scrabble behind the seat for the pair of _fucking_ gloves which I swear _to god_ if Jaeger has stolen I am going to garrotte the little douchenozzle with his own _fucking_ spinal cord-

The engine coughs, splutters, and whines into a stuttering and uneasy thrum akin to an asthmatic bumblebee. One more cough, almost as an apology.

And then dies.

There is a dull _whap_ as my forehead smacks onto the wheel.

The universe just loves to prove me wrong.

I glare across the bonnet of Mr Useless McShitmobile at the snowy landscape of my grimy apartment complex, transformed into a scene from a particularly obnoxious Wes Anderson film by the whirling flurries of white flakes. What the ever loving hell did I do in a past life to deserve this?

_Why me._

In the privacy of my car, I allow myself to indulge in a brief display of juvenile amateur dramatics, as I drag a hand down across my achingly tired face, and hurry some fingers through the nest of blonde strands atop of my head.

Fuck everything.

I am going to redefine ‘late’. Probably in both senses of the word once the Ackermans are done with my scrawny ass.

And I’m going to have to undergo the ordeal of public transport first.

This was shaping up to be an incredibly bad day.

*****

About fifteen minutes later, the drifts of snow are crunching under my feet as I trudge along the pavement, my hands buried deep into the confines of the tatty old coat, my nose scrunched into the soft fibre of the knitted scarf piled up around my ears. My gloves were nowhere to be found, and I make a mental note to pop round at some point so that I can extend the warm invitation for Jaeger to go fuck himself. The threadbare red beanie that I’ve unceremoniously shoved unto my unwashed hair is doing approximately fuck all to protect me from the whistling, biting wind which cuts like blades at every piece of exposed skin, and at this rate is probably a very similar shade of scarlet to my dripping nose. If I have to wait for more than two seconds at the bus stop in this shit then I may just sacrifice my nicest pair of jeans and beg on my knees for the sweet release of death.

How much longer is this weather supposed to be staying?

Pretty sure England is supposed to be the land of mediocrity and light drizzle, so all of the Narnian fuckery that the weather systems seem to be playing at is beginning to fray my nerves.

…. Which almost entirely give out when the packed and steamy bus draws up three inches from my nose, the reflection in the glass affording me a glorious view of my windswept and miserable face.

There’s not a single seat available.

Good lord. Noooooo.

Jostled amongst the prams and briefcases and commuters, I swipe my Oyster and cling to the thin turquoise pole in front of me as the bus lurches into movement.

I hate this.

I hate this to the depths of my soul.

To the depths of my empty, bottomless soul.

It’s not that I don’t like people. People individually can be just fine, but humanity as a whole, particularly when condensed into small claustrophobic places like steamed up buses or the London Underground, tends to give me heart palpitations. It shouldn’t even be a problem, I fucking _British_ for the love of god, we’re a nation characterised by our general social awkwardness and inability to make eye contact or conversation on public transport, but on bad days, the very presence of strangers is enough to make me feel ill.

Today is one of the bad days.

I sway slightly to the side as we screech gently around a sharp corner, muttering apologies to the tall woman in a business suit standing next to me.

I shuffle the earbud in my ear, testing.

Yep. That’s broken.

Fan- _fucking_ -tastic.

Half the audio of ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ hisses into one of my ear drums, and I catch sight of the digital display in the corner of my ancient IPod. Ten minutes late already Jesus Christ. Save me Kurt Cobain.

Five and a half minutes to my stop. Two more minutes at a brisk jog to the Tube stairs, which I won’t be doing so better make that three. Anything from one to eight minutes to wait for the Piccadilly line. Seven- _fucking_ -teen minutes of hurtling along underground in a metal canister with several hundred complete strangers, and then a four minute dash to office, at which point my obvious bedragglement and tangible animosity-cum-belligerence will speak for itself as to my horrible, terrible, very bad morning, excusing me for my approximately forty three and a half minutes of tardiness, and Levi will jovially punch me on the arm in a moment of exasperated, almost fatherly  affection and then everyone in the office will turn into purple winged pigs so that we can all fly off into the sunset together.

My fingers clench harder around the pole before me, which I have carefully wrapped my sleeves around for fear of the veritable menagerie of disease which is in all likelihood coats the damn thing.

The tall woman eyes my white knuckles, and I try to relax.

Calm, collected and professional. Jean Kirschstein, 22 years old, graphic design consultant, fresh out of a university in the north and enthused, ready to make his mark in the big city.

I ought to be a fucking comedian.

I usually come across as a grumpy bastard, which typically isn’t actually too far off the mark, I would never describe myself as having what one would call a cheerful disposition. Connie never ceases to remind me that the frown lines are fast becoming a permanent fixture on my face, and I suppose that I really have brought this all upon myself.

It was my decision to move to London after university after all.

Even if it was the only real decision that I could have made, considering the circumstances.

Two minutes left.

I wish I still had my mobile phone, Angry Birds was made for moments like these. What were apps made for if not the avoidance of existential crises on the morning commute? That and avoiding making human connections obviously.

The bus inches through the maze of streets as we enter the bowels of London, tilting as it takes corners.

The tall woman’s perfume smells nice.

One minute to go.

The car breaking down is a decent excuse I suppose, but everyone in the office can recognise The Purple Shitmobile on sight and it will come as a surprise to literally nobody, thus decreasing the impact of such an argument. I guess I could always just say that the bus was late. That one’s a classic. Maybe if I fix my hair up a bit before I go in I could convince everyone that I was forced to dig myself out of my snowed up apartment, using only spoons and my wits in a masculine display of determination and physical strength. A combination of the three with small amounts of embellishment might be enough to save one of my balls at a push.

Kind of doubt it though.

I nearly miss the doors hissing open in my careful reverie, and I almost forget to thank the bus driver as I stumble out onto the street, cursing softly as I slide on the slush covering the pavement. The snow is still fucking falling. Big juicy flakes drift down from the sky, splatting down in the road to be ground to water instantly under hot tyres, or splatting down onto the pavement to be sworn at by moody young adults.

The beauty of nature.

Sixteen minutes late.

Shiiiiiit.

Rounding the corner, I fly down the stairs, not least of all because of the crush of fellow commuters descending with me, like a coursing river of regret and mortgages and anxious energy.

Sixteen and a half.

Swipe the Oyster card.

Beep.

Green light, praise the Lord hallelujah.

Second turn on the right.

I can hear the train, it’s here.

There is a god after all.

I stagger onto the platform, just in time to see the doors of the carriage closest to me begin to close with a click and a hiss.

God fucking damn it.

You want to play this game, world?

_I’ll play this fucking game._

With a spurt of energy I launch forward, towards the narrowing gap, both hands hauling my rucksack further up my shoulders so as to avoid the heavy doors closing on it.

Closing.

I’m not going to make it.

Closing.

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu-

With a small breathless yell, I virtually swan dive between the sliding doors, tilting my bony shoulders a little to fit through the narrow gap.

Click.

Thanks to my fantastic and frankly Olympic level gymnastic ability, I just knocked an average of four minutes off the time I am going to be late.

I think this just before I barrel straight into the back of the tall, dark haired guy standing directly in front of the doors, knocking him over as well for good measure.


	2. Chapter Two

I’m not sure that I will ever get used to the London Underground, even after having lived here for six months now. The constant barrage of movement, the beating of hundreds of feet on the damp floor, the wind that whistles through the dank tunnels as the trains whip by and the echoing shrieks of brakes that reverberate throughout; just the thought of it makes my palms sweat and my shoulders shake.

And then there’s the people.

Hundreds and thousands of people, streaming up and down escalators, shoving and jostling and tutting with big briefcases filled with anxiety and long black coats that smell of cigarette smoke.

The ticket barriers are by far the scariest part though. One time I couldn’t find my Oyster card within five seconds, and I still flush red at the embarrassment of the memory. At least I didn’t start crying I guess. That would have been like me.

Because of my height, and broad shoulders, people don’t always realise how terrified I am, especially when it comes to talking to people or negotiating stressful situations.

Especially trains.

Especially now that winter is here.

I just want to stop being so afraid all of the time.

I shuffle apologetically onto the carriage, making sure to let the people leaving get off first. That was a very unpleasant lesson in Tube etiquette which I am not at all eager to repeat.

_It’s actually a pretty quiet carriage. I can see at least two empty seats._

_Maybe today won’t be so bad._

“Sorry, sorry.”

I smile tentatively at the middle aged man who is obstructing the way further onto the train, and am met with a small sneer. He shuffles back two inches. I shuffle forward one.

_Never mind that then._

“Sorry, uh…”

I try to ignore the knot of anxiety and self-consciousness in the pit of my stomach.

I’m still in the way of the doors, other people might yet be getting on. The back of my neck prickles with fear. Should I ask him again? There’s more space further up the carriage, but he’s blocking the way. Maybe he didn’t hear me. Maybe he didn’t understand what I wanted. Maybe I should speak more clearly. Why would he understand? All I’m doing is muttering apologies. Maybe he thinks that I’m being a rude youth, I’m sorry. He probably hates me. Pities me. Maybe he thinks that I want to sit down, which I don’t any seats are yours please please please just let me just-

_I’m exposed, I’m exposed, I’m in the way, someone’s going to be angry at me, I need to just…._

Calming breaths.

The doors behind me start to close with a hiss, and I breathe out slowly through my nose. OK I’m fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine. It’s fine.

Now just seventeen minutes and I-

All of the remaining breath is knocked out of me as a bony body crashes into the back of me, propelling me forward. We both thud to the floor of the carriage, sprawling at the man’s feet, who now, of course, staggers a few hasty steps back with an intake of breath to avoid a messy domino effect.

I wheeze and gasp for breath as the doors click shut, probably inhaling every speck of dirt that the floor has seen in the past twenty years or so, the movement of my ribcage restricted by the solid mass of _someone_ lying across me.

“Ah what the _fuck_.”

_Oh no._

_This is the stuff nightmares are made of._

“I’m- I’m so sorry.”

I choke slightly on my words, a mixture of fear and oxygen deprivation and a small leaf in my windpipe.

The Human Juggernaut squirms, trying to disentangle himself with a heavy sigh, or maybe a growl, but our legs are badly entwined and the awkward struggling results in only a knee to my groin and a string of swear words erupting across the back of my neck.

I can feel his hot breath above my collar.

_I feel kind of dizzy…._

I tentatively bring up a hand, touching the side of my temple where it had whacked against the hard plastic on impact.

_That’s definitely a lump-_

“Oi. Freckles.”

I look blearily up, rolling onto my side, lifting my knees to free myself, making eye contact with the stranger just as the train lurches into motion, causing the guy to crash back down on to me, heavy despite his narrow frame, his weight now sprawled across my ribcage.

_Amber eyes. That’s unusual._

“Oh for the fucking love of- shit- bollocks, Jesus fucking Christ.”

“Um.”

“Christ, I’m so fucking sorry man. Oh for the love of god…”

He’s on his feet now, the weight lifted from my lungs, cursing under his breath and scrubbing at the front of his jeans.

Oh yes. The slush of the snow and the dirt of several hundred feet has probably ruined my suit. The suit that I’m wearing to the first day at my new job. That suit.

Right. Good.

“Dude quick get up, there’s probably smallpox or some shit like that somewhere down there.”

Still nursing my pounding cranium, I take the hand offered down to me thankfully.

_Is the train supposed to sway this much?_

“I’m- I’m so sorry, I, I uh…”

I quickly raise my hand and grip onto the handles hanging from the ceiling just above my head, steadying myself and squeezing my eyes shut, trying to will the fuzzy static in my brain away. When I open them, blinking in the harsh, flickering light, I see amber again, scowling up at me.

His face is angular, pointed; his cheek bones are pronounced with jawbones like blades, and his sharp chin is probably the source of the bruising pain blossoming just below the nape of my neck. Blonde strands flick out from beneath a well-worn red beanie hat, and on making eye contact he quickly tucks the bottom half of his face into his scarf. His eyes don’t leave my face though. I wilt under his stony glare.

_My heart stutters for a moment._

He looks angry.

And really moody.

And really, really tired.

_He looks good._

You are not going to cry in front of the handsome stranger.

That is not what is going to happen here.

“You alright?”

“Um, yes sorry I…”

_There. My voice didn’t crack. Onto a winner._

“Why the fuck were you just chilling in front of the doors.”

“Uh.”

_Nailed it._

“Have you never taken the fucking tube before? Dawdling is a Grade A Bad Plan.”

He looks like he’s in an incredibly bad mood. The frown lines look a little like they’re permanent fixtures on his face.

“I… uh, sorry.”

_Please, I’m sorry, I made a mistake oh god he’s still looking at me what do I do with my hands what face am I pulling right now just please don-_

“Whatever you do, don’t do that on the escalators because some geezer will stab you with his cufflinks.”

“I’m, I’m sorry I was just moving up, I’m so sorry I didn’t see you and-“

He takes a deep, laborious breath, and drags a hand down the contours of his face, running his fingers through the strands of blonde matted on his forehead. Why doesn’t he have gloves? His hands must be frozen. They do look worryingly blue….

“No look, man stop apologising it’s alright.”

He waves a hand dismissively in my general direction.

_How noble of him._

He still looks pissed off though.

“OK. Sorry.”

He arches an eyebrow at me.

How exactly does one just stop apologising?

“I’m being an asshole. S’not your fault.”

“Right. OK.”

He arches both eyebrows and I feel my face flush bright red. Did I just insinuate that I thought that he was an asshole?

“Sorry.”

The blonde moody guy smirks at this, and to my great surprise takes hold of my elbow with long, slender fingers, pivoting me around to face the rest of the carriage. All of the other passengers very quickly look away.

“Alright Freckled Jesus, I think maybe you need to sit down or something, you might just have taken a bit of a knock to the head. Not gonna lie, most people would have punched me in the face twice by now.”

“Right.” I meekly comply, allowing him to shove past the sneering middle aged man from before, with me apologetically in tow.

I’m pushed down into a scratchy chair that feels worryingly damp, between a woman holding her handbag to her chest whilst playing Candy Crush and an elderly guy engrossed in a copy of the Metro. Blonde One perches opposite on another free chair, leaning across the carriage towards me, staring intently.

I look down at my feet. My face probably matches his hat.

“What’s your name?”

“Uh… M- Marco. Marco Bott.”

“Right. Teensy problem in how I have no fucking idea whether that’s the case.”

“Um.”

He leans back, his long legs stretched out before him.

And I thought that _I_ consisted entirely of limbs….

“What’s four plus three?”

“Um… Seven.”

He crosses his arms across his chest.

“Who’s the current prime minister?”

“David… Cameron….. in coalition with the Li-.”

I touch the side of my head again, wincing.

“Yeah, OK I’m sure you’re fine.”

“OK. Thank you.”

He grunts non-committedly. Maybe he’s having a bad day.

We lapse into an awkward silence, and he pulls his hat from his head with a flourish, pinching the material between his finger and thumb. With one hand, he ruffles the front of his fringe slightly, smoothing down the rather scruffy undercut. He folds his arms across his narrow chest, rumpling his already very creased black coat, gazing down the length of the train and chewing his lip.

_Wow._

I quickly duck my head back down to examine my shoes. I’m not staring.

He is a very attractive person. That I cannot deny.

I mentally kick myself in the shin. I can’t afford to become close to anyone.

_I can’t get close to people. Not anymore._

The train grinds to a halt and I flinch at the squeaking of the brakes, but it’s just another platform. More people pile onto the train and I’m forced to take a moment to focus on my breathing. Too many people. Small space. I want to be standing up, to be able to see out over people’s heads instead of being level with their stomachs, but the cloudiness in my brain drops non too subtle hints about just how much of a very awful idea that would be.

In my periphery, I see The Blonde offer his seat to an elderly lady with an oversized shopping bag, but when I go to vacate my seat in a similar fashion he actually puts his hand flat on the top of my head, using the temporary height advantage to prevent me from standing.

“Sorry Freckles. You can be saint-like on the return journey I’m sure.”

He’s touching my hair.

His fingers are bloody freezing.

_Marco Bott, you are not going to lean into his touch don-_

Blondie’s fingers are gone and he’s already sidling away, making room for someone’s bike, I look up in time to see one last smirk in my direction before his wiry frame disappears entirely from view in the claustrophobic crush of bodies. I notice how tense his shoulders look. Does he not like people either?

If so, he’s a much better actor than me. I wish I could exude that kind of confidence.

He must have thought that I was a bit of an idiot.

I smile a little to myself, scratching my nail at a dark splodge of dirt on my suit trousers, I need to find somewhere to clean up before I get there. Mr Smith had said that I could arrive at any point during the day, but I’m at least relatively sure that he meant earlier rather than later.

Weirdly, despite having been slam-dunked, dirtied, manhandled and then patronised by a foul mouthed peroxide toothpick, I was in a really surprisingly good mood, as if the clouds had just parted and the sun was hitting my face after years of gloom.

I smile a little more to myself, thinking about the ‘Freckled Jesus’ quip. I think he called me saint-like as well.

I’m sorry Blondie, but I’m no saint. I’m certainly no angel.

I burn everything I touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I have a massive essay due in for tomorrow, meaning obviously that this thing is suddenly absolute top priority. Double upload time! Yay!
> 
> I hate myself.
> 
> As always, kudos and comments are very much appreciated! This is my first time writing fan fiction and any pointers are very much appreciated. Thank you!


	3. Chapter Three

The door slams shut behind me as I breeze into the office with all the grace of a falling rhino, violently mashing my palms into each other in an attempt to kick start my circulation. My poor blessed fingers. Rest in pieces my darlings. Jaeger is going to fucking bur-

“Hey, look what the cat dragged in! Johnny boy!”

Brilliant.

“Hi Sasha.”

“Why darling you’re glowing”

“Fuck off Connie.”

“No seriously man your nose matches your hat. And you look like a dumpster that’s been hit by a train. After a wild night out on the town.”

“The aesthetic to which I aspire.”

“Don’t we all. Oh yeah, and Levi wants to see you in his office.”

Bloody excellent.

“Aw, sad little dumpster. Enjoy your castration now.”

“Much appreciated.”

I take a brief moment to dump my soaking, icy hat and scarf onto Connie’s bald and squawking head, shove my rucksack into my swivel chair and push Sasha’s socked feet off _my_ desk, before sidling up to the translucent glass door, behind which my imminent demise by fire and iron spikes awaits me.

My iPod display helpfully proclaims me to be thirty nine minutes late.

If I run now, what are my chances of reaching the Tube station before they catch me?

“I can hear your shitty mouth breathing Kirschstein.”

Zero.  Zero chances.

_Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu-_

I quickly pull the door open and smartly step inside, clicking it shut behind me. A small, dark haired man is sat at a huge, spotless Perspex desk, silhouetted from behind by the wall-size window overlooking the riverbanks. His hands are steepled in front of his face, and he doesn’t look terribly amused.

Praise the lord hallelujah his niece isn’t here.

“What the fuck kind of time do you call this.”

“Uh.”

Levi isn’t actually the editor. Technically speaking he’s just a reporter like Petra, Gunther and Oluo, but everyone, including Erwin, knows that Levi is the one really in charge. He runs the magazine with an iron fist. And a pair of iron bal-

Levi stands in one fluid moment, steps out from behind the small pile of prints he was perusing and whips out in front of the desk so that he’s leaning his butt on it instead. He crosses his arms, glaring up at me. His catlike speed never ceases to unnerve me.

I note with a shrill squeaking mental commentary that there is now a distinct lack of protective barrier between the two of us.

He actually wants an explanation then.

Goodbye genitalia, it was nice knowing you.

No one bullshits like Jean Kirschstein.

“Well you see sir, time really is nothing but an illusion. Once you understand it as an artificial concept, manufactured by humans in a futile attempt to engineer some semblance of structure to govern our dull and petty existences, you can-“

“It was your crappy car wasn’t it.”

“Yes it was my crappy car.”

“Mind your fucking language you lil shit.”

Levi sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose in an eerie mimicry of Erwin’s default expression. He looks tired.

_Caffeine depravation? Sleepless nights? Hange?_

“When can it be fixed?”

_Probably Hange._

“It wouldn’t start, I’ll call a mechanic as soon as I ca-“

“Mike’ll take a look, he has fuck all else to do.”

“Thanks sir, I really apprecia-“

“Kirschstein, why are your trousers covered in shit.”

I glance down and blanch.

Ah yes, that.

The splatters of dirt seem even worse in the bright morning light flooding the room, and I know better than to flick the flecks of leaves onto the shining laminate floor. If I pulled a stunt like that I’d be taking a short cut down to the lobby, courtesy of Levi and gravity.

“Impromptu rugby practise on the underground.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“It wasn’t my fault!”

I wince guiltily, big, brown pleading eyes flashing before my vision.

Levi raises the other eyebrow.

“He was loitering!”

The eyes are tearing up slightly. So many freckles.....

I sigh deeply.

“I ran into some guy when running for the train. Made acquaintance with the carriage floor. Entirely my fault.”

The door clicks open behind me.

“Oh hello Jean! Are you alright? Hange said that she couldn’t see you when she got in this morning.”

Erwin throws a warm smile in my direction as he strides in, handing a glass teacup and saucer to his husband before sinking into his black leather, making room for Levi on the armrest. Levi’s usual horror mixture of leaves and flowers can be seen floating in hot tea.

Eew.

“I had a few issues getting to work this morning sir. I’m sorry, it won’t happen again.”

“He was busy pawing over some poor fucker on the tube.”

“I wasn’t pawing! He was dawdling!”

Levi takes a sip and smirks at Erwin. They exchange a knowing glance.

Why does he have to drink his tea so weirdly?

“There was no pawing. What does it matter anyway, it’s not as if I’m going to see him again.”

Erwin grins and reaches into a desk drawer.

“Is that regret I hear Jean? Was he cute?”

“Uh.”

Big brown eyes blink up at me again. What would they look like if he smiled?

“Well...... uh.......”

Levi sighs loudly, getting to his feet.

“Riveting as Kirschstein’s train wreck of a love life is, I have a fuck tonne of work to do. The fuckhead manager is giving Petra grief. Again.”

“Non-violent methods only, Levi.”

“I make no promises. His hand goes near her ass again and he loses it.”

_There is no doubt in my mind that there is not a hint of exaggeration there._

“And that’s when Petra’s done with the bastard.”

Erwin has started taking items from the drawer and placing them on the desk, still searching in what I know to be a disorganised mess.

“Is today the day the new intern starts?”

Levi’s nose wrinkles as chewing gum wrappers and twisted receipts begin to pile up in front of him.

“How the fuck would I know, check your diary.”

“I’m trying to, but I don’t seem to be able to....”

Erwin continues to rummage in the drawer.

_Why does Erwin own kitten highlighters?_

“Thank fuck we have a reader base of about eight, it’s a miracle we’re still in print.”

Grey eyes turn to me again and I flinch back to attention. I actively resist clicking my heels together in salute.

“Where are you with the page five fold out?”

“Nearly finished sir, I just need Erd to get the last few photos to me, of the Military Police. I need the ones of them playing live, he only sent me candid shots and some of them in the studio.”

“I’ll shove a rocket launcher up his ass. I also need you to talk with Ymir about the concept art for page eight, and if she tries to fuck with you about line art commissions tell her we’ll put out an ad.”

“An ad to hire another artist?”

“To sell her shitty internal organs.”

“Right.”

I take a moment to imagine this confrontation with Ymir and my hair roots ache, as if in premonition.

“And when the intern turns up, show him around without scaring him off.”

Oh no, people skills requirement.

“Isn’t Sasha better doing that?”

“No.”

“Connie?”

“No.”

“Petra?”

“Thin ice Kirschstein.”

“Right sir, sorry sir.”

I turn to leave, but just as my hand touches the door handle I hear Levi shift behind me, taking a quick breath.

“Is there any news on Armin?”

My fingers clench on the smooth steel.

“He’s..... he’s not great.”

“...... And Eren?”

I examine my shoes carefully. Levi puts on an impressive act, with a mouth like a sailor and a death glare which could level civilisations, but under the apathy and the deadpan and the horrifyingly pretentious leaf juice he’s potentially the most caring person I know.

_If he knew about the screaming at night, the notes of apology shoved under my door, the haunted bags under Eren’s eyes when he rings the bell at 2am........._

_If he knew that I hadn’t lost my phone under the tracks as I’d told him, and that I’d lost it when jumping into the cold black water......_

_If he knew about the confused dead eyes and shallow breaths, the crumbling egg shells, the stuttering and whispering and the wild stares and....._

I swallow quickly.

“They have each other.”

I turn to see that Erwin has risen from his desk and placed his massive hand on Levi’s shoulder. For a moment, they strike me as a pair of concerned parents, heads tilted and brows creased.

“They’ll be OK.”

“Thank you Jean.”

The words feel like ashes in my mouth.

_Tell them._

_They can help._

And like the coward I am, I choose flight.

I lunge quickly out of the door-

_You fucked up again Kirschstein._

-and straight into the broad chest of someone standing directly in front of me, face planting into a strangely familiar blazer and tie.

“Oof! Waargh!”

“Oh god.”

My knuckles clatter painfully on the door jam as I reel back slightly, my poor abused hands smarting.

Wide brown eyes float in front of me, eye brows raised in panic and a flush creeping up-

Freckles.

_Oh fuck._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the kudos! I had no idea that this many people would read it, let alone like it!
> 
> I'm sorry for the slow chapter, I'm trying to get some exposition in before the sexual tension begins in earnest. This is still a jeanmarco fic I promise.


	4. Chapter Four

Wow ok that’s a really stubborn patch, maybe if I dampen the tissue it’ll- oh, no that’s so much worse.

Abort abort abort mission, oh god this is a nightmare....

I throw the sodden, crumbling tissue mess back down into the sink with a dull squelch, and glance up in the mirror, the fluorescent flickering of the lights above nicely illuminating just how screwed I am.

The blazer is beyond rescue, plastered with small bits of debris and slush, and the front of the shirt is if anything slightly worse, visible brown splodges splattered across the once crisp white fabric. If I had remembered to wear my coat I would of course not be finding myself in this situation now, but the past is in the past and I’m close enough to tears as it is so let’s not go there.

This is my chance. A paid internship at The Wall magazine. Working on one of the most illuminating and discerning culture publications in England with what undoubtedly is a crack team of professionals. I might even be able to afford heating again. Everything I could hope for, and I’m going to turn up looking like I lost a fight with a compost heap.

I suppose I should be cursing The Angry Undercut but I can’t quite justify it. It was my fault, I’d been standing right in front of the door.

Of course one option could be to buy a new shirt quickly and change in the toilets at the office, and I furrow my brow in a quick but arduous mental maths session. Not an option unfortunately, the water bill needs paying and I really don’t have it in me to skip another meal.

Gosh darn it. Time to get creative with hand dryers.

I take a quick glance around me, checking that the Tube toilets really are deserted, and quickly unbutton my shirt, shucking it from my shoulders and into the sink, which is steadily filling with steaming hot water. I carefully don’t look into the mirror. Just a quick rinse, to get the worst out...

The door swings open behind me and I freeze, hunching my shoulders up.

_Oh god._

I squeeze my eyes shut.

It’s true that the scars aren’t as noticeable as they once were. The lines and stitches and spider web of ugly gashes that were once bright red and purple are now pale against my tan, freckled skin. But even if they are lighter in colour, the network of ridges and burns that laces across my left arm, half of my torso and creeping up into my collarbone, as well as disfiguring my left leg with a sudoko puzzle of scar tissue, is still very, very noticeable.

And looks an awful lot like something taken straight from a horror film.

_Please don’t stare please don’t stare please don’t-_

A cubicle door slams shut and I frantically wrestle my blazer onto my bare shoulders.

Did they see?

Brown eyes stare back at me in the mirror, panic flickering in their depths.

Useless.

Pitiful.

_Pathetic._

*****

Of course, the office is on the 22nd floor. At this rate I don’t even sigh. Quite honestly I don’t know what I was expecting.

The tall receptionist looks at me like I have three heads as I politely enquire where the stairs can be found.

“There’s a lift just here on the right, is it not working or something?”

“I uh, yes. I mean, I’m sure it’s working. I’d just rather walk, if that’s ok.”

“If you’re absolutely sure, I have to say I’m impressed!”

“Impressed?”

She laughs a small tinkling laugh as she puts down her Natural Geographic to open a small service door leading to a spiral of wiry steps leading up into the dark.

“Of course! I keep meaning to take up jogging again but I always talk myself out of it.”

“Ah right. Well uh, thank you.”

“Have a nice day!”

I look at her name tag quickly. Hannah.

“You too, thank you. Sorry for bothering you.”

The door clicks shut behind me. The metal banister is cold beneath my fingers and I stare up into the helix of poorly lit grilles, spiralling upward to my destination. I could try to convince myself that I’m climbing 44 flights of stairs for the sake of keeping fit, but not even I have mastered that level of deceit.

The hand dryers had had a similar effect to the breath of an asthmatic sloth, and my shirt was still very damp, especially around my collar. Hopefully the trek up will give it a chance to dry off.

As I begin to climb, taking two steps at a time in a loping stride, I begin to flick through the different scenarios in my head. It was a nervous tick that I had developed over the years, rehearsing conversations and situations mentally before I encountered them, and lord knows once or twice it had actually saved my skin.

Would it be gleaming and white, a big bustling open plan office with workers scurrying like ants?

I bet it’s huge. The Wall magazine is vastly influential, some of the best cultural critique in the country can be found between its pages. It doesn’t exactly have a massive reader base, but it’s growing quickly and in artsy and musical circles it’s reaching biblical proportions.

_Maybe I’ll have my own desk._

I stamp down on that one quickly.

Likely not, I’m an intern. I already know from American TV shows that that means photocopying and coffee making.

_Third floor._

Mr Smith had sounded friendly over the phone, but that doesn’t mean anything. Adult phone calls are terrifying ordeals and no doubt this was apparent as I stuttered and apologised my way through the exchange, maybe he just didn’t want to cause a break down.

I snort out through my nose. I’m twenty one years old, I should be able to cope with a simple phone call by now.

Would there be anyone my age there?

_Fifth floor._

His first impression of me would have been of a snivelling idiot, I’m going to need to up my game. Firm handshake, that’s important. Eye contact. That too. I try a carefree and confident smile but I suspect that it’s more of a grimace. _Good morning, Mr Smith. I would have been here earlier, but I’m afraid I was held up..._

I wonder if Blondie would be on that train every day. Does he always catch that connection?

More importantly, does this mean I want to catch that one more or less?

_Seventh floor._

I shouldn’t be thinking about this, he hated me. I’m willing to bet I’d ruined his day, he looked so angry.

I’m probably never going to have to see him again.

Why am I not relieved by this?

_Ninth floor._

_Tenth._

_Eleventh._

I probably should be relieved by this.

_Twelfth._

He probably wouldn’t even recognise me in the unlikely situation that we were to run into each other again.

_Thirteenth._

So I’m not going to think about him.

_Fourteenth._

_Fifteenth._

Does he dye his hair?

_Sixteenth._

_Damn it Marco._

My breath is becoming laboured now and I take a moment to rest, bracing my hands against my knees. Praise the lord, the stairs are completely deserted.

_Of course they are. Other people aren’t broken like you._

_Can’t even stand in a lift, how are you going to make it in a job? Close quarters with others. For hours. Conversation. Questions. Talking. People will see. Immediately._

_They always notice the cracks._

_The lack of eye contact._

_They’ll call you a freak._

_You’re a freak Marco. Why can’t you just stop this. Mum wouldn’t want this._

_Can’t you just be normal for once in your life?_

I start climbing quicker now, trying to outrun my own mind. Just focus on your breathing, and the mechanical movements of your arms and legs. Don’t look at the walls. They’re not closing in, that’s impossible. You’re absolutely not going to have a panic attack on what I suspect is a glorified fire escape minutes before your first meeting with your new boss.

 

_Seventeenth._

_Eighteenth._

_Ninetennth._

_Twentieth._

My shirt is nearly completely dry, just a slight clamminess on my back and under my arms. It’s unpleasant and I didn’t manage to achieve quite the shining white from before, but it isn’t completely brown anymore so that will have to do.

_Twenty first._

Good lord my lungs are on fire. If I’m going to do this every day then I’ll have to start doing stretches in the morning.

Do I have a six pack yet?

I will by the end of the year.

Either that or have expired from exhaustion and poor life style choices.

_Twenty second._

I push open the small service door and stumble through it, tripping over my own feet when met with fluffy carpet. Then I freeze.

I’d assumed that there would be some kind of foyer, maybe a second landing which led into the office, or perhaps a buzz door where I would have to state my name and intention, friend or foe.

I certainly hadn’t been expecting to launch straight into a small and cosy room, filled with desks and whirring monitors, yellow sunshine flooding through the big windows and illuminating the colourful posters which covered every inch of the walls.

I hadn’t expected the sudden warmth of central heating turned to max to flood across my skin like a blanket.

And I definitely hadn’t expected to see two people my age jousting on swivel chairs.

The pair were standing on the arm rests, in what I suspect to be a flagrant disregard for health and safety regulations, a taller brunette with a pony tail clubbing a squawking guy with a buzz cut, using a rolled up magazine and cackling manically.

I recognise the bright font and realise that the weaponised magazine in question is a copy of the most recent edition of The Wall.

Well at least I know I’m in the right place.

Maybe if I just edge out of the door again I can knock and then-

“Sasha- aargh, dude stop, there’s a visitor!”

There’s an intake of breath, a yelp and a crashing noise as the guy loses what seems to have been a heated tournament.

Both turn to face me.

I quickly straighten my back and try a smile.

“Is this ah- the editing office for The Wall magazine?”

Suddenly the brunette called Sasha is three inches away from my face and I can’t help but flinch back.

“Did you just climb the stairs all the way up?”

“I uh, yes I did I-“

“Dude how the bloody hell are you alive? I get out of breath opening tricky jars!”

The shorter bald man has appeared also, rubbing the small of his back and nudging Sasha out of my personal space. He offers me a firm handshake.

_Eye contact Marco, eye contact._

“Well uh-“

“I’m Connie by the way, and this is Sasha.”

“Hi, I’m-”

“So you really climbed all the stairs?”

“Godssakes Sasha give the guy some space.”

“I am! Are you an athlete or something? What do you play?”

“I don’t I just-”

“Why didn’t you just take the lift? Is it broken?”

“Oh god please do us a favour and tell us the lift isn’t broken.”

“You’d have to carry me.”

“Are you kidding me? It’ll be like the girl from the Grudge. I’ll just slither down on my front.”

“It isn’t broken.”

“You see now I’m weirdly disappointed.”

“You don’t have the hair for it anyway baldy.”

“Touché. What’s your name dude?”

“I’m Marco.”

“It’s nice to meet you Marrccooooooo-“

“It’s nice to meet you dude. What can we do for you?”

“I’m uh, here to meet Mr Smith. I’ve been hired as... ah... intern.”

“Oooooooh yeah I remember Erwin saying. About a new intern, you remember Connie?”

“Was this before or after Levi put Hange in a headlock?”

“Potentially during.”

“That’s why I don’t remember. Welcome to The Wall my friend!”

_In a headlock?_

“Ah, thank you!”

“Erwin is currently tearing our beloved late colleague a new one but if you knock on his door real quick he’ll be cool with that.”

Connie gestures in the direction of a translucent glass door.

“He’s uh.... tearing... a new-“

“Oh, no dude, don’t worry I was kidding. Erwin is like a golden retriever made human.”

“What does that make Levi?”

“I dunno, some kind of cat. The kind that pushes drinks of tables and throws people through walls.”

“I don’t think those kinds of cats exist.”

“Have you never met Christa’s cat? Dude that thing nearly had my eyes.”

“Uh, Levi?”

“Levi Ackermann. Head reporter.”

Ah yes. I had heard of Mr Ackermann. Anyone with any interest in journalism had heard of Mr Ackermann.

Connie had moved away to right the toppled desk chair, but turned to grin at me.

“Anyway, go knock on the door dude. Don’t look so nervous, it’s fine I promise.”

Sasha laughed.

“Yeah, I wanna see how Johnny boy is doing.”

Ah yes. The late colleague.

I hope Mr Smith isn’t in a bad mood.

I shuffle over to the door.

I can hear muffled voices inside.

Surely I’m interrupting?

He’ll be angry at me. And if the famous Mr Ackermann is in there too....

I just have to knock. I can feel Sasha and Connie’s confused stares burning into the back of my neck.

I just have to knock. Two quick raps. Confidence Marco.

I hover my clenched fist two inches from the translucent glass, and try to regulate my breathing. I’m OK. Everything’s OK. I can do this. I’ve got this far.

_One._

_This is fine._

_Two._

_I_ _am fine._

Thre-

Then the door whips open and a small body is propelled into my arms.

“Oof! Waaargh-“

“Oh god”

He stumbles back against the doorframe, I reach out to catch him but he manages to stay upright.

“Wha-“

“I’m so sorry! I was just knocking and the-“

“YOU!”

Amber eyes are glaring up at me and a thrill of de ja vu ripples down my spine.

_Oh god._

"What are you doing here!?!?”

“Uh.”

It’s him. The guy from the train. Human Juggernaut. Blondie. The hat and scarf is gone, and the bag.

_Does he work here?_

I don’t ask for much. I don’t deserve this bad karma.

“Kirschstein don’t be so fucking rude.”

A short man with jet black hair, who I had initially mistaken to be a child, has appeared just behind Blondie’s shoulder, and is elbowing him in the ribs as the tallest man I have ever seen reaches past Blonde Angry One’s head to shake my hand. I maintain eye contact for just over a second before my gaze drops to my shoes.

_First impression first impression first impressions he’s looking at me why is he looking at me what am I doing with my face what should I do with my hands was that a good handshake I should have been firmer-_

“It’s a pleasure, Marco I presume?”

“Ah yes sir.”

My voice doesn’t waver one bit.

“Fantastic, you’re earlier than I expected. My name is Erwin Smith, and this is Levi Ackermann. And uh... I see that you and Jean have already made acquaintance?”

_Jean._

That’s a nice name.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see that Jean is still glaring up at me, his cheeks dusted with a rising shade of pink.

“We uh-“

“Well um-“

I rub the back of my neck. My shoelaces are truly fascinating.

“You’re the poor bastard that Kirschstein jumped on the Tube.”

Mr Ackermann is leaning on a desk to my right, his arms crossed across his narrow chest with one eyebrow arched sardonically.

“I didn’t jump him!”

“Explain his fucking jacket then you moron.”

I wince, resisting the urge to cross my arms over my chest. Jean looks vaguely like he might be about to throw up.

“It wasn’t... I didn’t-“

“Did you have a fucking wrestling match or something? There’s shit all over his back too...”

His nose is wrinkled slightly and I shiver under his steely gaze. And then I just actually shiver, because my shirt is still damp and the shining office through the door has some rather aggressive air conditioning.

“Levi please, we’re trying to cultivate a professional atmosphere...”

“Shut up Shitbrows he’s already met Thing One and Thing Two, too late for damage control. Just set the fucking stable on fire.”

Connie and Sasha sniff behind me, breaking their silence, and I realise they’ve been rather avid spectators of the exchange.

Mr Smith beams down at me, grabbing the handle to his office door with a huge hand.

“Please excuse Levi, we’re all under a bit of pressure, deadlines and so on and so forth.”

“It’s ok, I uh...”

“Speaking of pressure I have an appointment to keep.”

“Of course, Mr Zackly is in need of your attention.”

“Mr Fuckface is in need of me tearing him a new a-”

“Uh, Jean would you mind giving Marco a quick tour? And maybe some introductions?”

Mr Smith seems faintly desperate as he yanks Mr Ackermann back towards him, simultaneously ushering both me and Jean out of his office, closing the door with a swift click.

_Right._

_OK._

There is a shrill high pitched screaming noise in the background of my mind as I scramble for something, anything, oh god is he still looking at me, I shouldn’t look too late yes he’s looking at me Christ just swallow me up, lightening strike, Godzilla attack, just drop a piano on my head because I think I’m going to-

“How’s your head?”

My head.

“My head, uh. It’s good.”

Smooth.

“Right. That’s good.”

I swallow.

Jean shifts his feet. He seems to be particularly interested in his shoelaces as well.

_Why is he wearing tattered old Converse in this weather?_

“I uh.... I’m Jean. Jean Kirschstein.”

“Yeah. I’m uh, Marco Bodt.”

“....”

“....”

“This is weird.”

“Yep.”

“Sorry about running into you, uh, again.”

“That’s OK, I’ll have to do a better job of catching you next time.”

“....”

Aaaaaaand I just said that out loud.

_Killmekillmekillmekillmekillme..._

Jean chuckles to himself and I brave eye contact.

_He’s grinning at me._

“Freckled Jesus strikes again. You’re too fucking nice man. People might take advantage.”

_... take advantage?_

I’m carefully considering the various implications and interpretations (he called me Freckled Jesus again) of his phrasing (Freckled Jesus) and am most likely blushing an attractive shade of purple (he thinks I’m nice) as Jean moves out of my line of vision and brushes past my shoulder, sighing deeply.

“Alright, whistle stop tour and an introduction to the Gremlins, coming right up.”

I allow myself to breathe as some of the awkwardness seeps from the atmosphere.

“Way ahead of you dude, we’ve already introduced ourselves.”

“What?”

“Mhhm. We were the first to welcome dear Marco into our collective bosom.”

“Marco I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

“It’s OK.”

I manage a quick smile for Sasha, who’s grinning at me as she disappears into a small door I hadn’t noticed before.

My smile drops when I see that Jean is staring at me with wide eyes.

Is there something on my face?

“Ahh- Anyway yeah this is the main office, that’ll be your desk there,” Jean flings a hand in the direction of a little corner desk, covered with piles of books and decorated with little fluffy headed trolls.

“We’ll, ah, move some of that stuff off there so you actually have some space...”

Is it already someone’s desk? I don’t want to be a burden.

“I can share.”

“Oh, uh actually Armin’s.... taking a leave of absence from work.”

Connie takes a quick intake of breath behind me.

“I uh... I live pretty close to him so I could ferry some of the stuff back to him this evening. Not a problem.”

There’s more to this story, but I decide not to ask. The tense line of his shoulders tells me it’s a sore subject.

“But anyway, you’ve seen Lev- Erwin’s office so that’s pretty much done, you won’t need to go in there much as Erwin generally comes to you if he wants a word.”

“Right.”

Jean quickly side steps between the cluttered desks, dodging the scatter cushions that litter the floor.

“My desk, Connie’s desk, Sasha’s desk, Mikasa’s, Petra’s, Hange’s...... Where’s Hange?”

“Hange and Levi had a small altercation.”

“Oh fuck’s sake not again.”

“She had some new ideas.”

“Good lord.”

“She’ll be back midday, she said she had a plan which she needed to put into action.”

“Listen out for fucking police sirens then I suppose.”

“I think last time the coast guard turned up too.”

“Christ. No wonder Levi looked knackered.”

“How are your balls by the way?”

“Peachy, thank you for your concern.”

My face is pretty red at this point.

“Uh,”

“Oh, Hange is creative director. She has some pretty un-fucking-conventional ideas and there’s a pool going on how long it is before Levi actually murders her.”

“Right.”

Not what I was asking.

“I’m the graphic designer, so you’ll probably be having a lot to do with me,”

Yep. Bright red.

“Sasha is social media strategist due to her stupendous people skills, Levi’s head reporter, Petra and Mikasa are reporters and are usually here at about one, Mike is office maintenance and fuck knows where he is, uuhhhh...”

“Ymir.”

“Oh yeah, Ymir will be here soon. She’s our main artist but doesn’t actually work here, she does commissions and shit.”

“She has freckles too, you’ll get on well.”

I’m gripped with a temptation to cover my cheeks.

“Shut up Connie it doesn’t work like that.”

“You haven’t introduced him to the boys!” Sasha yells from the other room which she’s disappeared into. She pokes her head out.

“Marco m’dear I’m afraid I didn’t get you anything, how do you take your tea?”

“Could I have water please?”

“Sure? We have coffee too!”

“Oh, uh, could I have coffee please?”

I follow Jean into what turns out to be a tiny kitchenette, and Sasha shoves a Styrofoam Starbucks cardboard cup into his hands. It has ‘John’ scrawled down the side and I hear him huff, wrapping his long fingers around it as he settles against the work surface

“I’ll let you do the milk and sugar Marco.”

Sasha sets out a small tupper and half a pint of semi skimmed, next to the small yellow kettle which is boiling on the work surface. A huge cat poster is hung on the wall encouraging me to ‘believe in myself’, colourful crocheted coasters are dotted about, and a small pile of cacti crowd onto the small windowsill, flowering in red and pink. What immediately has my attention though is the huge fish tank which dominates the table in the corner, in which I can see flitting goldfish ducking in and out of the swaying weeds.

“Jeaaaan, you haven’t introduced the boys!”

“I’m not introducing Marco to some fucking fish. My pride has been damaged enough today.”

“He’s being a grumpy old man. He hasn’t had his tea yet today, he perks up after that.”

Sasha gestures at me to join her next to the huge fish tank, grinning as Jean offers her the two fingered salute.

“This one is mine, he’s called Potato,” she jabs her finger into the tank, at a small pudgy yellow one with bulging eyes, “this is Connie’s, called Agarth the Usurper, Destroyer of All, this is Jean’s, named ‘Fish’.”

She takes a moment to glare behind at Jean, who levels a raised eyebrow in her direction.

_Please don’t do that._

“Who’s that?”

I point at a black and orange one with long fins, hidden at the back.

“Oh, that’s Horatio. Armin named him.”

A silence falls.

_Oops._

Luckily Jean breaks the silence, shifting as the kettle comes to a boil to pour the hot water into an ancient looking Star Trek mug.

“We’ll have to get you one. Start thinking of a name Marco, as you can see I put a fucktonne of thought into mine. The pressure is on.”

_I get a fish?_

I turn quickly to add a little milk and sugar, smiling a little, accidentally brushing my fingers against his when reaching for a teaspoon.

I don’t fail to notice that he jerks his hand back like he’s been burnt.

He seems flustered, and my heart sinks. He realises that there’s something off about me.

_Of course he does, what were you expecting._

A hesitant silence again falls across the small kitchen, Sasha has her eyebrows slightly furrowed as she stares at the two of us.

“You don’t talk much do you Marco?”

“Ah, no. Sorry”

Jean snickers, lifting the cup to his face, cupping his hands around to enjoy the warmth.

“Again with the apologising man.”

“Oh shut up Jean he’s cute.”

Again, a piano to the cranium would be great. Any moment now.

“I’m not saying he isn’t, it’s just a bad habit. You don’t want to be a door mat Marco.”

_He thinks I’m cute?_

He points at the kitten poster.

“Believe in yourself.”

_If only it were that easy._

“Seriously though, if you live your life in constant apology you won’t get anywhere. That confidence of yours needs a boost, that’s all. I know you’ve got it in you Freckles.”

His blistering honesty is refreshing. It’s been a while since someone had spoken so frankly to me, and whilst his words are harsh I can tell they’re not meant to hurt. I hug my mug slightly tighter to my chest.

“Thanks Jean.”

He nods in my direction with a surly grunt, and takes a small sip from the Styrofoam Starbucks cup he has been nursing.

He immediately projectile spews steaming hot liquid a good three meters to my left.

_Uh._

 “SASHA what the FUCK is this?”

“Black tea! You asked for black tea!”

He wrenches the lid from the container.

“Sasha there are FIVE TEABAGS in here!”

“y- y- YOU SAID YOU WANTED IT STRONG!”

He stares at her in speechless wonder for a couple of moments, before turning to me.

“You see this fuckery? Every goddamn day.”

“I don’t know how your weird leaf juice is supposed to work!”

“Every goddamn day I put up with this.”

“You wanted black tea, that is undeniably very black tea.”

“Get out whilst you still can Marco. Run far away from this place”

“Your instructions were unclear and I take zero responsibility for anything.”

“LITERALLY a teabag and boiled water. LITERALLY.”

“You still like it though right?”

“YOU COULD PROBABLY WEAPONISE THIS SHIT JESUS CHRIST.”

“I don’t think Jesus would want to weaponise anything, that was kind of his whole point.”

“Godssake’s Connie.”

Jean pushes Connie’s bald head back out through the door from where it had popped out, just underneath his elbow.

I allow myself a small smile, looking down into my swirling coffee, the sounds of Sasha and Jean bickering washing over me, like a soothing, comforting blanket. Usually any kind of conflict would bring me out in a cold sweat, but there’s no venom in their words. Everyone’s being so.... welcoming. It’s like I deserve to be here, like I belong. I trace my thumb along Spock’s face. The odd one out finds a home.

For years I’ve been living like half a man, in perpetual self denial and loathing but right now....

Right now I feel.... whole.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry for the late update! University was being preeetty nightmarish, but now that I've broken up for Easter I should be able to devote more time to this thing.
> 
> I had a list of things to accomplish in this chapter and I haven't succeeded in one of them. 
> 
> It'll pick up soon I promise.

**Author's Note:**

> I have this one all planned out, and hope to be updating every Saturday! This is the first time for me when it comes to writing formative works, so please be gentle. Any comments and kudos are very much appreciated, and I apologise in advance for the various horrors that shall be befalling your beautiful characters.
> 
> I'm so so sorry.


End file.
